Ordinary Life Is All That Remains
by Unique
Summary: The world didn't stop just because Sherlock did so John keeps going, living his life one day at a time. Post-Reichenbach Fall


The world didn't stop just because Sherlock did so John keeps going, living his life one day at a time.

Ordinary Life Is All That Remains

John woke disoriented, as was his new habit. He had slept poorly again, disturbed by the deafening silence of his new flat. He was having difficulty settling into the place, always expecting to be…elsewhere upon waking. The flat was nice, but small and mundane, the type of place that Sherlock would never have voluntarily visited, because it might kill him with boredom. He liked that he could not picture Sherlock here; it was why he had chosen this location, no ghosts to haunt him.

It was too early in the morning to think about Sherlock.

John stumbled out of his bedroom into the combined kitchen and living space, crossing to the corner with the kettle in six shambling paces. He would feel more human with some tea, and perhaps, while he was thinking about it, he should make some toast. It was all too easy for him to forget to eat these days, although work with its set times for meals and snacks helped.

He decided to walk to work that day. The sun was shining so the pavement was filled with fellow travellers who had had the same idea. His shoulders bowed against the press of the other people. He felt like they were all watching him, that they knew who he was or that his circumstances were tattooed across his forehead. At the same time, he could not help feeling invisible and separated from humanity. It was odd to feel such dichotomous emotions.

Shaking his head, he pushed the feelings away. Now was not the time. To distract himself, he tried to observe the people the way Sherlock would have seen them. The doctor in him had already noted the boy with the sprained ankle, the man in the last stages of recovery from ACL reconstruction, and the girl with either an STI or Candidiasis. The soldier in him had found one person with a firearm (licensed) and three people with knives, as well as one person directly ahead of him who was probably sufficiently skilled at martial arts to kill. The remainder of his walk passed quickly with his inner-Sherlock finding little anomalies amongst the masses like the man with three cell phones and the woman who was desperately trying to hide the fact that she had been crying. He theorized various possible explanations but knew they would all be wrong.

"How are you today, Dr. Watson?" asked the receptionist as he entered the surgery.

"I'm well," he said. "And you, Nancy?"

"Oh, just fine, Dr. Watson." She smiled at him, handing him a stack of papers. "You have a busy day today."

"Thank you."

"I must say," she said, lowering her voice so that no one else could hear, "We're all pleased to see you doing better."

He smiled at her, feeling like a fraud, pretending at being happy. John wasn't happy. He wasn't anything. He felt plenty but they were skittering feelings, off at a distance, more cognitive than emotional; and everything to do with Sherlock was wrapped in a numb, nothingness. Was this really doing better?

"Thank you," he said again for lack of any other response, retreating rapidly to his office.

He pulled out his records and began meticulously studying his notes from each patient on schedule for the day. He placed a fresh form over the old notes, ready for his first patient. At the top of the page, he wrote the day's date. He stared at it. Sherlock died on this day, one month ago.

One month.

It was both so short and so long a time. So strange to think that just one month ago, today, Sherlock had still been alive, for at least part of this day. So strange to think that just one month ago, today, his life had changed forever. Oh, he could argue that his life really changed the night before when they ran hand in hand through the streets of London, but it had been today, one month ago, that he lost Sherlock.

Well, he didn't feel numbness or nothingness now.

One month.

How was he ever going to make it through forever?

He forced himself to return to his notes but his mind kept circling back to the date. He had never paid much attention to the passage of time like this; anniversaries had never really held any significance for him. It should be just another day, as well as any day without Sherlock could be just another day. It had been just another day until he had realized the date.

He still couldn't believe that it had been a whole month.

A knock at the door interrupted him, heralding the first patient of the day. He stopped his thoughts and put them away, focusing on the sick man in front of him. The man listed his symptoms while John took notes knowing that a good history was the key to an accurate diagnosis.

While he wrote, he watched the man, listening to the nasally, stuffed quality of his voice. When he was standing, the man kept one hand in contact with the wall or the examination table. He moved his whole body as a unit, keeping his head still and turning his neck as infrequently as possible.

"Have you been doing any work in the garden or visited someone with pets?" he asked, as he gently palpated the man's neck, feeling for swollen lymph nodes.

"Feeling like this? No, I've been at home every night."

"Hmm, open your mouth."

He shined a light at the back of his throat. The tonsils were normal but there was some inflammation along the back of the throat- no speckles, which meant it probably wasn't strep throat but he took a culture for the lab to make sure. When he pressed his thumbs under the man's eyes, the man winced.

"You have an infection in your sinus cavities. The drainage is what is making your throat sore, and causing the dizziness that you neglected to mention."

The man looked sheepish. John merely shook his head and wrote out a prescription.

"Thanks, doctor," said the man as he left.

The next patient hobbled in with a sprained ankle and left on crutches. After that, there was a steady flow of cases, none complex, but they kept John too busy to stare at the calendar. He liked these times when he could focus on the now. It wasn't forgetting but it was an escape.

As soon as there was a lull between his patients, he checked his phone, but, of course, there were no messages. He had no one to text him anymore. He sighed. It wasn't that he ever forgot that Sherlock was gone but the little things kept tripping him. He kept expecting all the background details of Sherlock that had merged so effortlessly into John's life to still be there so he needlessly checked his phone and took out an extra mug for tea. He wondered how long it would take before those habits faded away.

His next patient was Mrs. Robinson, one of his regulars. She had been attending the surgery since it had opened its doors through a steady flux of doctors, despite having relocated to a new neighbourhood over an hour away. He rather liked the elderly woman; she wasn't as lively as Mrs. Hudson but she had her own charm.

"You don't look ill, Mrs. Robinson," he said, as she bustled into the room, all smiles. "Are we skiving from work again today?"

"Just came for my flu jab."

"Then have a seat."

He checked her chart, noting the timing of her last vaccination and double checking that she had no allergies.

"You know, you can get this done at any chemist," he said, as he wiped her arm with alcohol. "You don't need to travel all this way."

"Have you ever watched any of those louts?" she asked with a dismissive sniff. "I really don't think they know what they're doing. No, I'll keep coming here. You always employ the best people."

"I'll do my best."

He inserted the needle into the muscle of her arm and depressed the syringe. A quick plaster covered the wound.

"I was glad to see you again, love," she said, once he was finished. He dropped the needle into the Sharpsafe. "I had to see Dr. Eckhart last time and it just wasn't the same."

He took a deep breath.

"I was away for a while."

She nodded, sombrely.

"I saw the news. I'm very sorry for your loss," she said, her voice hushed; she reached out to wrap his hand in her soft, wrinkled fingers. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," replied John with a polite smile. "But, thank you."

"You just hang in there, doctor, it will get easier." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I was only fifty when I lost my husband. Never re-married."

John wondered if she was simply sharing her own experiences with grief or if she was yet another person with the wrong impression of his relationship with Sherlock. He supposed it didn't much matter; the sentiment was the same. Thanking her again, he ushered her out of the door.

He returned to his desk with a sigh of relief. He would be so glad when he finally stopped having these conversations. No matter how sincere the person seemed, he always felt like they were judging his grief; weighing whether he was too emotional or not enough, mostly not enough since the jagged pain had faded into a vague nothingness that wasn't quite numb.

John shook his head, emphatically. He was not going to analyse his emotions yet again. He had declined regular sessions with Ella for a reason. He was functioning fine now; he did not need to keep poking and prodding at something that was obviously working. John could not afford to return to the basket-case he had been in the beginning. He just needed to give himself some time; it had only been a month.

One month.

Again, the milestone loomed almost incomprehensibly. He had been incapable of noting at the one week mark so this was the first real indication of the passage of time. Would month two be as difficult? He could not imagine it getting any easier, even though he just had to look back on those early days to know that it already had, or at least he hoped it had. Secretly, he worried that he was not actually coping, but merely pretending, because he felt like he should be hurting more and it seemed unhealthy that he wasn't. Sometimes he worried that everything he worked so hard to avoid thinking would come crashing down at once and break him into a million little pieces.

Today was actually reassuring in its roughness.

He stared at the date again and closed his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath.

Eventually, he would have to go back to Baker Street before Mrs. Hudson managed to erase Sherlock's presence entirely. It was still too soon. For all that John had lived there for eighteen months, everything in 221 B was Sherlock, and even the wallpaper that predated them both was undeniably his- scarred by bullet holes and paint. John wasn't ready to see that again, to feel Sherlock's presence knowing that it was only an echo. He would never be able to live there again; surrounded by Sherlock he would become a ghost in his own home, but if he changed the flat and made it his, Sherlock's absence would be too painful to bear.

Later. Later. He just needed time. He still could not believe that a month had passed, that he was a month into this new normal. How long until he went an entire day without thinking about Sherlock? Would he ever go an entire day without thinking about Sherlock? It seemed unfathomable because John owed everything to Sherlock. Sherlock had taken this lost little man fresh out of Afghanistan and made him whole, made him better. How could John live his life without immediately remembering and being grateful to the man responsible?

He decided to visit the cemetery after work; the day deserved to be marked by more than the maudlin loop of his thoughts. He hadn't been alone yet, but after a month, surely it was time. John stared blankly at the door, his thoughts still, a heavy sadness hung within the hollow of his chest. Again a patient interrupted him, making him blink, and he set everything aside to focus on his work.

"What seems to be the problem today?" he asked, the harried woman, as he watched the silent, sullen child sitting on the examination table. He didn't really need an answer; the child's flushed, rosy cheeks and the way she kept pulling at her left ear told him everything. He pulled out the otoscope, noting the child watching it with wide eyes.

"Thank you, ma'am." He said, once the mother had finished her rambling explanation.

"Hello, there," he told the child. "I'm sorry to hear that you're feeling poorly. This device here is going to let me look inside your ear. See there's a light here and this little piece here goes in your ear. Don't worry; it won't even hurt a little. I do need you to sit still, please."

He gently pulled back the child's hair and slid the otoscope into place. As expected, the tympanic membrane was inflamed. He switched the earpiece and checked the other ear, but that one was normal.

"Good job," he told the child, and then addressed the mother. "Definitely an ear infection. I'll write you a prescription for an antibiotic; make sure she takes it all. She still needs the medication even if she's feeling better."

The mother nodded, looking relieved. John smiled as he sent them on their way. Sam pushed open the door, while John was still wiping down the examination table.

"I'm off out," he said. "Nancy said to tell you that that was your last patient, too."

"Ta," replied John, with a vague wave. "See you tomorrow."

John finished restoring his office to order, luxuriating in the blankness that had settled around him like a duvet. Thankfully it held while he completed his paperwork, even when he had to write the date. Soon he was pulling on his jacket and giving his farewells to Nancy and the other staff.

The cemetery was quiet and peaceful, the kind of place that would have made a nice respite if it had been anything other than a cemetery. He was the only person within sight. John weaved his way through the stones being respectful of the dead's rest until he came within sight of Sherlock's grave. He paused, feeling an ache begin within his chest, and took a deep breath; his footsteps automatically fell into a march.

The black marble was beautiful but dramatic enough to suit Sherlock; Mycroft had chosen well. John knelt down to trace the masculine letters-cold beneath his fingers- that spelled out Sherlock's name. The design was exquisite in its simplicity, but John could barely bear to look at it. Someone had removed the flowers that Mrs. Hudson had brought the last time John had visited. The grave was clear, except for a shiny, ebony rock on the right-hand corner of the marker- igneous, unless John was mistaken, polished into the shape of an egg with a flat bottom. He wondered if one of Sherlock's many acquaintances had been Jewish or if the stone held some other significance.

Damp from the earth soaked into John's trousers as he knelt, his head bowed. It hurt to read Sherlock's name; it was just so wrong to see it here in this manner, in this location. His body shuddered with the effort to hold himself together in the face of the gravestone's silent shouting: Sherlock's dead. Sherlock's dead. He knew his face was wet with tears even as his eyes burned with more he'd pushed away. It was just too much, this loss; he could not wrap his head around this gaping hole in his life that used to be Sherlock.

John turned away from the grave, standing absolutely still with his eyes closed. His breath came in gasps. He had come here to mark the occasion, but he lacked the words, and refused to beg. Instead, he pulled his pain in tight around him and steeled himself. He walked away. By the time he reached the cemetery gates, he was stoic, untouched, but his hands stayed in his pockets the entire way back to his flat to hide their shaking.

"I'm home," he said, as he entered his empty flat, trying to make it true. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue; he had no home, not anymore. There was nothing keeping him in London, or England for that matter, except his stubborn refusal to run away from his grief. He would rather stay in London where Sherlock's absence was everywhere than hide in an easier city where he could pretend that he had been the one who left.

He settled into a nightly routine that was pathetically familiar, except he no longer spent hours staring at the blank update screen on his blog. He had no intention of every updating his blog again. Instead, he sat in his chair, a new one, and stared that the telly that he occasionally even turned on. The loneliness and the emptiness ate at him. He knew that there were people he could ring- Mike who had known Sherlock or Bill who had the patience of a saint- but he knew he would never actually say any of the things that ran through his head every day.

Trust issues. John rolled his eyes, annoyed with himself. He didn't need to talk to anyone.

He needed to talk to just one person.

He turned his face and pressed it against the side of his chair, breathing in the chemical scent of the fabric. He shifted slightly, letting the rough texture soothe him, and let his mind go blank. Everything felt distant which made it easier to handle.

When he had sat there long enough for all of his limbs to go stiff, John stood and changed for bed. He needed his rest so that he could get up tomorrow and face another day in his new life.


End file.
